Change Of Season (14 page)

Autumn shook her head slowly.  “No… No, I can’t go home.”

“Of course you can.  It’s Saturday, remember?” Veronica pressed her fingers to Autumn’s forehead. “You’re clammy. I’m getting the nurse-”

“No!”  It came out louder than she’d intended, but it was effective: Veronica halted, her eyes widening.  “V, can we just… go?  Somewhere?”

“Dora’s gone home for the weekend.  Come to my room.”  It was more an order than a suggestion.

With a shaky nod, Autumn found herself pulled gently to her feet, her belongings slung over Veronica’s bare shoulder as she guided her out of the dining hall and across the mucky quad.  The cool air jarred her back into her goose-pimpled flesh, her thoughts more coherent. 
Nikki killed herself in my room.  She looked like my relative.  Thus, I am the creepiest newbie at Casteel.  Lovely.
  She half considered asking how she died, but the blanched complexion of her friend deterred her. 
She won’t tell me anything more now
, she decided.  If she wanted more details, she’d have to sleuth it out.

Do I really need more details?
  Autumn shuddered slightly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her eyes. 
Pandora, meet your box
…

***

Veronica spent the afternoon on a mission of cheer and consolation, going so far as to retrieve Autumn’s homework from her room on her own, bringing it back to her own.  In the corner, her laptop blared
Josie and the Pussycats
on Netflix, their homework abandoned for discussion of lighter topics after a sighed confession from Veronica.

“I am so Josie,” the buxom blonde complained.  “Hopeless.  Insecure.”

Autumn cocked her head in disbelief.  “V, you’re the most confident girl I know! You’d never be this ridiculous around Alan M. – and speaking of, I’d totally forgotten how tasty Gabriel Mann is.  Goddamn!”

Veronica pulled her loose waves into a low ponytail, shaking her head at the screen, where Josie and Alan M. were having yet another moment of tongue-tied relationship failure.  “No, really; when it comes to a guy I actually
like
, I’m an idiot.  I say lame crap, stammer… I’m a Miley Cyrus song, girl.  You know the one.”

“The bad rip-off of ‘Sunglasses at Night’?  I just… I can’t see it.”  Reaching into a bag of Twizzlers nearby, Autumn waved a strawberry strand in the air.  “Why do you think you freeze?”

Veronica shrugged. “I think… I was kind of awkward as a kid.  Braces, frizzy hair I never brushed, tomboy…  I guess guys never looked at me twice, except to tease me.  And I was so shy at school!  Home was a whole different story, but school was scary!  I actually joined Drama on a dare, and then I figured out I was great at being other people.  I could blame it on a script if I said something ridiculous.”

“Everybody loves you here.  Don’t you see that?”

Veronica flushed crimson. “You’re a sweetheart.  I kinda do, but a part of me is still scared, I guess.  It’s worse when guys are involved.  I’ve only dated three guys, and one was at Drama camp last summer.  I think I have a rep for either being a bitch or a lesbian, so nobody even asks me anymore.”

Autumn’s brow furrowed.  “Hmm…  Maybe they think you have a hot older boyfriend at another school?  You do go home most weekends.”

“True…”  Veronica sighed loudly, flopping onto her back and kicking her foot.  “Or maybe Evan just doesn’t know I’m alive!”

“Wait a hot second!  Evan?”  Autumn paused the movie, briefly chuckling at the freeze frame of Tara Reid’s face.  “As in, super cute guy from my Writing class?  Lean and built, caramel skin, looks way too pretty in a Speedo?”

Veronica giggled.  “You after him too?”

“Oh hell no!  I’m voluntarily off the dating market all year.”  She rolled over, her head resting on Veronica’s stomach. “But as your fake girlfriend, I do pay attention to who’s catching your eye.  You drag us out to the swimming pool to chill a little
too
often.”

“Shit, am I that obvious?”

Autumn rolled her eyes. “You’re about a step below
Swimfan
, Veronica.  Have you ever talked to the guy?  Said hi?  Complimented his breast stroke?”  She snickered as Veronica gasped, playfully tugging her hair in reply.  “Look, I’m not the best at these things, but I have watched my friend Heather do this mating dance way too many times.  Talk to him.  Seriously.  Wear something sassy, like you are today, and just chat him up.”

“But what if I go all ‘smelly garbage guy’?” Veronica groaned, referring to the movie on screen.  “What if he secretly hates me?”

“Why would he?  is there some secret Gryffindor-Slytherin type of rivalry between Drama and Creative Writing?”  Autumn feigned a gasp.  “Are
we
the Casteel Romeo and Juliet?”

“A season by any other word would sound as sweet,” Veronica teased.  “No, there’s no rumble brewing that I know of.”

“So if this isn’t going to turn into a Jets and Sharks showdown,
talk to him
.”

“You should talk to him first.”

Autumn growled in frustration.  “Oh hell no!  I’ve done this role way too many times with the Jarvis football team.  No way!”

“Please?”  Veronica batted her eyes coyly.  “I’ll be your best friend.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Autumn replied, rolling her eyes.

Veronica’s hand reached for hers, and Autumn startled slightly, her eyes meeting Veronica’s.  “I’m serious, Autumn.  You’re so important to me, you know.  You
get
me.  I… I just want to know if he’s single before I make a fool of myself.  Could you?”

Autumn bit her lip, then nodded. “You owe me a favour, no questions asked.”

“I love you!”

“I thought you loved Evan?  K-I-S-S-I-”

“Shut up!” Veronica squealed, tossing a pillow at Autumn’s head.

“First comes love-”

“Are you twelve?”

Twizzlers and books hit the floor as the two girls warred with pillows, Autumn falling to the floor in a giggling heap.  The floor pounded beneath them and they stifled their laughter with their hands, Veronica mumbling an insincere apology at the mystery student below. 

“You know, this is not going to help with your lesbian reputation,” Autumn quipped.

“At least my girlfriend is gorgeous.”  Veronica smiled widely.  “Let’s blast Tegan and Sara and
really
get them talking.”

Autumn shook her head.  “You’re evil.”

“I know.”

“After
Josie
, you’re on.”

They never made it to their sing-along, much to Autumn’s disappointment.  Their dorm mother knocked on the door briskly, informing them of curfew, and Autumn reluctantly packed her things to head back to room 308.  Veronica insisted she call if she felt uncomfortable, promising to sneak to her room after lights out, but Autumn knew she couldn’t trouble her like that.  Her valiant distraction all afternoon was above and beyond the call of friendship duty, as far as she was concerned.

Her door opened silently as the key engaged the lock, the moon outside casting an ethereal glow upon the four poster bed.  She hesitated at the door, unsure of herself, then hit the lights abruptly.

“There’s nothing here,” Autumn muttered angrily to herself.  “Stop being stupid.”

Setting her backpack by the door, she stepped into her bathroom, splashing cold water on her face and patting it dry.  It made no sense to freak out now.  She’d slept here for weeks, without incident.  Her bed was comfortable, and the bathroom floor devoid of blood stains.  And, considering the tuition each parent paid for the precious pupils of Casteel Prep to attend, they’d surely made an effort to dispose of anything…
tainted
by death. 

Look on the bright side: you get a whole room to yourself, right?
 

It was a very bright side.  Her insomnia was growing worse lately, many nights spent with her iPod in ears, fingertips drumming along with the beats.  Sometimes, she risked punishment and wrote on her laptop – journaling, mostly, although she often worked ahead on Creative Writing assignments.  A lot of students would gripe about the glow of the display, but this was Autumn’s domain, and she was a creature of the night.

Her pseudo-pep talk didn’t stop her, however, from Googling up Nikki Lang.

Not much came up, despite her best efforts.  A locked down Facebook yielded a picture that did bear a frightening resemblance to Autumn’s own visage, and a few articles from school events bore her name in passing.  One article mentioned a memorial service for her at Casteel, but it was the school paper, and as such, it was very tight-lipped about details of her demise.  Frustrated, Autumn set her laptop on the floor, slamming the lid roughly.

She couldn’t ask anyone else about Nikki without jabbing a pointy stick into a rather large hornet’s nest. She couldn’t
not
ask questions.  How would she get her answers?  Untangling her ear buds, she hit the lights before the dorm mother could nag her, peeling her jeans off and slipping into yoga pants by moonlight. 
The library!
  Wasn’t that what they did in movies – check out yearbooks and other random nonsense? 

It worked in that
Gossip
movie… 

Autumn had only just turned down the comforter, her iPod waiting patiently upon her pillow, when it started.  Crying.  It was a muffled sobbing, a desperate heartache in a pillow, and it was loud.  Her fist rose to strike the adjoining wall when Autumn remembered:

Both of them went home this weekend
.

Trembling, her fist fell to her side as she crawled onto the bed, ear pressed to the wall.  The crying girl grew noisier, each incoherent sound sending a chill up her spine. 
No one is there.  There’s no one… But someone is crying! I’m not crazy!  Veronica heard it before.
 

Impossible…

And yet, she asked anyway:  “Nikki?”

Silence.  Deafening, it crashed over her, driving all air from her lungs.  Gasping in surprise, she drew her knees tight against her ribs while her heart pounded frantically within them, screaming to be set free.

That’s… not…. 

A final sob rang out as the light overhead flickered wildly, her surge protection bar for her laptop engaged, and the bathroom light flashed in her periphery.  Burying her face in her hands, Autumn rocked herself in fear.

A foolish Pandora, her box opened, sat awake until dawn.

137

Change Of Season

NINE

Oakville; Oct 2
nd
, 2011

Restless sleep embraced Autumn at the first light of morning, her weary, tear-stained eyes lulled into submission.  Her earbud cords tangled about her wrist, she dozed a whole three hours before the sunlight and the carefree laughter of her peers roused her anew.

Nikki cries in my room. Every. Damn. Night.

Pulling a brush through her hair and roughly yanking it into a ponytail, Autumn dressed in an oversized black sweater and jeans, stifling a yawn. 
She doesn’t move anything.  She doesn’t touch me.  Maybe she’s just…. stuck
.  Spritzing herself with a citrus scent to mask her skipped shower, Autumn bit her lip.
I need to understand why
. 

Autumn had a strange fascination with horror movies stemming back to fifth grade, when she’d snuck downstairs to watch a
Halloween
movie marathon on a Saturday night.  Although they’d deterred her from ever babysitting for anyone, she’d also enjoyed the prickle of fear upon her neck, the adrenaline surge as Michael Myers slashed his way through Haddonfield.  She’d often joked to Heather that it would be cool to see a ghost, or be a homicide detective.

Her opinion on the subject had drastically changed.

Backpack slung over her shoulder, she trudged out to the campus library, determined to avoid her room for as long as possible, and perhaps learn more about Nikki Lang.  It would have to be subtle – she was certain that a dead girl’s doppelganger asking for articles on her suicide wouldn’t fly well with the librarians or Logan – but she had time.  Insomnia was a gift of endless time to fill.

The library was quiet, save a cluster of students in the commons discussing what sounded like physics, although Autumn couldn’t be sure.  All she knew was that the chatter was soaring above her head, and might as well have been in Swedish.  Sauntering up to the help desk, she swallowed hard, feigned a shy smile, and slid into her concocted role.

“Hi there!  Would you be able to tell me if we have old yearbooks and school paper archives?”

The librarian, two knitting needles shy of the stereotypical grandmother, glanced up at Autumn and smiled warmly.  “We do have them, in the reference room.  They can’t be signed out, but you can make copies.  Is there anything in particular you need, dear?”

Autumn shook her head as casually as possible. “Oh, no! It’s just that I’m working on a present for a friend, that’s all.  Compiling a scrapbook of her time at Casteel, baby pictures, all that.”

“That’s so thoughtful!” the librarian cooed, setting down a Danielle Steel novel, to Autumn’s bemusement.  “Right this way, then.”

Penny loafers lift-slapped along polished hardwood as the librarian led Autumn to a distant corner of the main floor, meandering between stacks of current newspapers, paperback novels and multiple copies of Encyclopedia Britannica.  She hummed to herself, a nondescript upbeat melody; Autumn envied her sense of ease, her own lips pursed in frustration. 

“Through that door there,” she said, gesturing to a series of shelves within glass walls, guarded by a theft detection device.  “There’s a copier in there, but if it breaks down, fetch me and I’ll assist you.”

“Thank you so much.” Autumn forced a smile, the kind she wore in family photos these days. 
Now please go back to
Daddy’s Jewels
or whatever drivel you’re reading.

“No trouble at all!”  And she was gone, tottering her way back to the desk, reading glasses slipping down her nose.

With a weary sigh, Autumn stepped into the reference room, eyes glancing in every direction. 
Let the games begin
.  Tossing her bag onto a nearby desk, she delved deeper into the stacks, scanning the aisle labels for something useful, like, “Yearbooks!” or “Casteel Preparatory Self-Pimpage”.  It took several irritating minutes, but at last, she noted a tiny sign beneath a Dewey Decimal placard:

Casteel Publications

With a silent cheer, Autumn stepped onto a nearby stool, scanning a row of yearbooks on the top shelf and wondering if they were arranged thus to deter drunken doodling.  Opened in 1964, Casteel’s annual bound bundle of beaming boys and girls took up several expansive pieces of library real estate, but she was able to at last locate a copy of the 2008-09 book, bound in (surprise!) royal blue leather.  For the sake of appearances, she snagged the year before and the year after, lest the librarian come wandering in.  The bonus: seeing Veronica’s old school photos.

Fingers trembling, she opened the correct tome, flipping through the introductory messages from Logan and blah blah about proms to the alphabetical listing of students, subcategorized by grade.  Her brow furrowed as she attempted to recall what Veronica had said about Nikki. 
Was she in grade eight? Nine?
  She was older than Veronica at the time, that much she knew.  Starting with the grade eights, she flipped through the smiling faces, pausing to giggle at Veronica’s wild spirals before moving on to grade nine.  No Lang there either.  She pressed on, finally meeting with her subject on page 94.

Long, copper hair framed a pale, heart-shaped visage, her smile faint.  Forced. 
She wasn’t happy
, Autumn thought immediately.  Her uniform was slightly unkempt, and she hadn’t fussed over her appearance at all, not even to dash on make-up.

The resemblance was uncanny.  No wonder Meg shuddered at the sight of her now.

Nikki wasn’t in any clubs or student groups, featuring in only two other photos within the book.  One was a snapshot of Meg and Nikki in the quad, obliviously chattering upon one of the ornate benches while two guys tossed a football in the background.  It was so quintessentially boarding school it was nauseating. The other was a snapshot from a Winter dance, top and centre on a memorial page at the back of the book.

Nicole Lang was born in Thorold, Ontario, the eldest of three children and the only daughter.  Her intention was to graduate and pursue her Media Studies degree at Brock University.  She passed away “suddenly” on February 15
th
, 2009, at the age of sixteen, and was missed terribly by many, several of whom had quotes printed on the memorial page.  Meg’s message was at the bottom. 

Nothing to explain why she’d ended her life, though. 

The student papers yielded little more, aside from an anonymous poem, published weeks before her passing, and a review of a student film festival that featured Nikki’s work.  The poem was rather dark, condemning "eyes that devour" and speaking of "crazy" as "the flavour of the weak".  It resonated deeply, and Autumn understood the things left unsaid:  Nikki was depressed, and the campus knew it. 

The film, a short piece entitled
Funeral For A Friend
, earned rave reviews in the Casteel paper.  It was apparently a black and white short featuring a woman preparing for a friend’s funeral and explored, through a series of monologues, life and death, love and loss, and psychology as a science.  It sounded brilliant and Autumn made note of it, wondering if perhaps a copy lingered in the Media Centre.

None of this, however, explained why Nikki was hanging around room 308, or why her Cinderella hair barrette was lingering in the theatre.

Discreetly taking photocopies, Autumn replaced the items upon the shelves, lest anyone be offended by her investigation. 
Fuck it. She cries. There are worse things a ghost can do. 
Defeated, she found a small table in the main library and tugged her Creative Writing journal from her backpack.  She had a short drabble due the next day and absolutely no plot bunnies to herd together into a coherent piece.

“Writer’s block,” Autumn grumbled. “What else can go wrong?”

Her pen tapped upon the page as she struggled for inspiration, but only her ghostly double came to mind.  Somehow, she sensed that a melodramatic dirge about haunted bedrooms would send up flags of alarm that Logan would hear of, which in turn would mean a special therapy session with Emma. 
Not an option
, she concluded.  Of course, the one assignment in ages without specific directions would be the one she’d trip over. 
Maybe I can write about a worn-out librarian dreaming of a better life between the pages of pulp fiction?
  Stifling a giggle, Autumn rested her head upon the table, closing her eyes. 
Come on, Muse… Where are you
?

“Wouldn’t a bed be more comfy, Red?”

Autumn’s head snapped up, eyes widening.  “Miraj!  When did you get here?”

Miraj grinned, tousling her blue-streaked bob as she removed her hood.  “Twenty ago?  I was on my way back from Hamilton and thought I’d detour for a bit.  How’s tricks?”

Autumn groaned. “Shit is fucked beyond.  I don’t even know where to start.”

Miraj gestured to the open notebook on the table. “I suggest we start with a new locale.  Granny Bookminder won’t approve of the volume.”

“Good point.  Let’s go.”

Packing her things quickly, Autumn slung her backpack over her shoulder, politely waving to the librarian on her way out.  Miraj snorted as they stepped into the chill of early Fall, shaking her head.

“They have you practicing your curtsey, too?”

“She helped me out,” Autumn countered. “I may need her again at exam time.  So, how’s work?”

“Sucks, but it pays the bills.  Parentals are pretty angry, but I don’t exactly care.  But this isn’t about me, Red:  you were saying something about the proverbial fan getting slung with dung?”

Autumn nodded, rubbing her aching eyes as sun struck them through the clouds.  “So, guess who looks like a suicide case from two years and change ago?”

Miraj halted in her tracks, her boots sliding in the wet earth.  “Whoa!  You serious?”

“Yeah, and it gets better, too:  I’m in her room.”

“That’s pretty creep-tastic, Red.  No wonder you look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

Autumn sighed loudly, scanning the quad.  A few students lingered on benches, but all was otherwise deserted.  Still, this was not a chat she planned on having in earshot of anyone in the Casteel ecosystem.  Where to go?

“Red?  What’s up?”

Autumn feigned a smile.  “I’m just debating where to hang out and write today.  Total block, and my room is out.”

Miraj bit her lip, then shrugged.  “The theatre building?  Don’t you like writing there?”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t usually go during the day, though.  Too busy.”

“It’s Sunday.  Who else besides a prisoner like you would be there?”

“You have a point.  Let’s go.”

They trudged along the grass, sneakers and strappy combat boots side by side, saying nothing.  Comfort in knowing silence.  Autumn debated telling Miraj of the crying, but thought better of it.  Miraj was an atheist; ghosts were a product of so-described “Christian bullshit.”  She would probably think Autumn needed to be on hardcore medication – which might be true, but that was beside the point.  
No, I better keep it vague
.

“How’s Emma?”

Autumn startled slightly, her hand yanking forcefully on the side entry door to Media Studies. “Fine, I guess?  She’s pretty nice.  Good taste in music.”

Miraj growled under her breath. “Yeah, but are you talking to her about-”

“Not yet,” she blurted out, eyes scanning wildly for signs of life within the building.  “I can’t go there.  Why do I even have to?”

“It’s the only way.  Out is through, through being through the walls.  You’re not an idiot, Red.”

Tiny porcelain hands toyed with Autumn’s hair as her friend stared into her eyes.  Those eyes… they always saw through her lies and fake smiles.  It was infuriating, but soothing.  Heather could never see, never understand.  A hurricane had blown her world apart, and Heather was busy applying lip gloss.  But Miraj dug through the rubble, pulled her from the debris.  Wasn’t that enough?

“It’s over, though.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

“Is it?” Miraj countered.  “Because if it’s over, why are you here, hiding from your life?”

“Shut up,” Autumn warned.

“Why?  Because you know I’m right?”  She chuckled sarcastically, shaking her head as she drew her hoodie over it.  “Face it, Autumn, your house of cards is crumbling.  You can either reach for the life preservers, or drown.”

Without another word, her friend spun on her heels and stormed out of the building, leaving Autumn as she always was: alone.

Better off this way. No one gets hurt.

Slipping into a stairwell, she made her way to the second floor, where her usual leather chair by the window lay vacant.  The cool leather soothed her, and for a moment, she debated napping instead of writing.  But it hit her then:  a plot bunny.  Pen and book pulled from her bag, she curled her legs beside her, and began to scribble.

Even nature is violent in this small, run-down town.  The birds do not sing – they scream, as I scream, bolting upright from the dream.